


Easier

by alwayscominghome28



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Post Season 3, basically just Rio denying he cares for Beth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29655798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwayscominghome28/pseuds/alwayscominghome28
Summary: (She ain’t special. Wasn’t the first one he ended up fucking with, won’t be the last. That’s how this goes.)or: Beth doesn't do her job, Rio finds her at a bar in the middle of the day. He reflects on theirrelationship.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Easier

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime after season 3, so the hitman-plot kind of existed like in the show but Beth cancelled it before Fitzpatrick could kill anyone, so Rio's still alive. Otherwise the story here would obvs not make much sense.

He’s not here because he cares for her.

(For her as a person, an individual. A woman. A mother. Or what else she may call herself.)

He’s not here for her _._ He’s _not_.

The only facet of her existence that he actually cares about at this point is the one responsible for making _his_ money.

And the only reason he’s come is that she’s letting things slide again, neglecting business for her own damn benefit. She can’t just be slacking off whenever she wants to, whenever business doesn’t suit her book, and he’s done chasing after her whenever she does exactly that. It’s not like he’s Elizabeth’s father or husband or somethin’.

(In that case, all his efforts would be worth a while at least.)

If he would have to run after each of his employees like that, he’d never come to an end.

She finally gotta get her shit together if she doesn’t wanna end up with a bullet inside her skull real soon. It ain’t his fault that she’s still too soft, too naive for her own good. As a matter of fact he dared to hope that by now she kinda knows how this works, that she’s aware of the fact that _this_ is no ordinary sideline with regulated working hours, holiday pay and shit.

Once you’re in you’re in. And if you mess up, you end up dead or in jail. Depending on who chases you down first.

(Miraculously, she’s still alive and free. It’s his fault for the most part.)

The sight of her in a bar is not unfamiliar by now; seeing her with a drink in hand shortly after moon isn’t either. She’s been doing this a lot after that phony husband of hers had taken her kids; he recalls finding her like that, making lame jokes about how losing the kids wasn’t so bad after all if it would allow her to drink early on.

(He didn’t believe a word she said and, from the look on her face and those glassy eyes, neither did she.)

Now she’s slumped down above the counter, legs dangling to the right and left of her stool. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a casual, ash grey sweater that is so _not_ Elizabeth. From behind her hair resembles a flat, dull mat of red, which envelops her head.

Any other time he saw her in a bar she wore slinky dresses or patterned blouses, flowered or dotted, hair all spruced up.

(Not that he ever paid close attention to petty details regarding her appearance.)

In any case, for all he knows Elizabeth rarely lets herself go like that. She’s not the type for that.

Well, except that _one_ time, not long ago. He can’t help but notice that she wore a similar sweater back then too. Not the exact same color maybe, not quite the exact shape either, just the same strange nonchalant aura.

Rio remembers each word from that conversation.

(It’s not like they talked much, so there’s not much to remember anyway.)

He remembers each, fucking word even though he tried to forget about all about it, because, really, it doesn’t matter. Never did. Doesn’t matter she lost the baby cause he didn’t truly believe her anyway; it wasn’t real, had never been. Just another one of her silly, desperate lies to keep her life, to keep him in line.

(And, somehow, she managed to get away with it. It still makes him look like a fool.)

Elizabeth doesn’t look up as he approaches and, truthfully, she _must_ become aware of his presence cause there’s not much else going on in here at a time like this. It’s far too early for bored strangers addressing lonely women in bars, inviting them to drinks and more. She must know that.

The fact alone that he has to be here right now, in the middle of the day, when there’s more urgent business with more cooperative _partners_ on his mind, jars on his nerves and that she’s clearly ignoring him right now makes it even worse. He has no time for such petty nonsense, even - no, _especially_ when it’s coming from her. 

(Her stubbornness is going to get her killed someday.)

Rio slips on the barstool next to her, even though he doesn’t plan on staying for long. He’s careful to pull up his knees very slowly, doesn’t want to touch her more than necessary. There was a time when he nearly enjoyed leaving traces of skin on hers; relished watching her react whenever he invaded her personal space, seeing her flush or shiver.

Ever since she branded his torso with three bullets, he has attempted to cut it back.

(He’d allowed her to get under his skin, quite _literally,_ and had regretted it ever since. No matter how smart, how witty, how _intriguing_ she could be - she ain’t worth the trouble. Business like this lacks space for that kind of drama _._ )

Studying her askance makes him wonder for how much longer she can pretermit his presence - and for how much longer he will let her get away with it. She doesn’t deserve any of his patience, not even a shred of it; he doesn’t owe her a thing. If any it’s her who should rush around, printing and washing his money, paying off old scores.

Hell, _she_ should be the one running after _him._ Not the other way around.

Instead she’s here, getting drunk in broad daylight. 

_When does it end?_

She asked him that, only days before putting three slugs in him.

 _Never_ , he thinks now.

Betrayal, _pain_ , sit too deep, immortalized on his skin. It’s a debt, so high, that she’ll never be able to pay it off.

He starts drumming his fingers on the counter, checks his phone, pockets it again.

She shifts in her seat, allows her hair to fall in her face, making it easier for her to hide from his looks behind thick layers of reddish curls. Briefly, Rio feels his fingers twitch, ready to tug the curls behind her ear again, but then he resists, lowers and clenches them into fists instead. It’s not what he does anymore.

„What’re you doing, Elizabeth?“

The way she doesn’t flinch, not even moves in the slightest bit, tells him that he’s been right. She ignored him on purpose, knowing he was there all along, _waiting_. He stifles a snort. She’s still supercilious enough to believe the world’s solely revolving around her and her shitty problems, like he ain’t got a life, _a family,_ himself.

„Taking another drink?“ 

Her voice rises at the end of the sentence, like she’s asking him for permission or somethin’. But she doesn’t sound too sluggish to conduct a proliferous conversation so he rushes forward, expelling his next words through gritted teeth cause otherwise - he’s sure about that - he would yell. And he tries to avoid that, with her at least; it would only create the absurd impression that he cares.

(Which he _doesn’t_ \- just for the record. Only when it concerns business.)

„Where you’ve been last night?“

She takes her time, her hands spinning her empty glass on the counter. Still, she doesn’t look at him, gestures for the bartender instead, who’s open to take her order almost immediately; it’s not like there’s much else for him to do at a time like this. Rio doesn’t stop her, even though he knows he probably should. The more she drinks, the more it’ll take to get a decent answer out of her. When the bartender gives him a questioning look, he declines his silent request with a curt shake of his head, not being in the mood for a drink.

(Not here, not now. Not with _her._ )

Elizabeth’s drink arrives. She thanks the young man, who served it, and it’s the first time Rio hears her voice since he set foot in the bar. It sounds oddly strained and thin, a little raspy too as if she palavered all night and, seriously, that’s nothing that would surprise him about her. But then again those are just two tiny words and surely the first thing she said since the arrival of her last drink, so it’s fine. _She_ is fine.

(Not that he cares.)

She takes a sip, then seems to remember the unanswered question still hanging between them. Elizabeth straightens a little, enough to bring their shoulders to the same level.

„Busy.“

The impudent naturalness with which she says that _one word_ makes his blood boil.

He rests one of his elbows on the counter beside her, props his chin on his hand to get a better look at the few he gets to see from her. The other, free hand shakes impalpable, so he lets it clench around his kneecap, successfully prohibiting the futile tremor. He won’t go postal or somethin’ with her around, won’t show his anger in its entirety, cause she doesn’t deserve gaining any insight into what’s going inside him.

Furthermore, time and experience have taught him that sometimes acting all calm and composed can be much more effective, much more intimidating than throwing a tantrum.

„Ah, so just let me get this straight. You tellin’ me you were too _busy_ to do your freaking job, that right?“

There’s a sharpness to his words that she just can’t miss.

Elizabeth inhales deeply, exhales shortly after. Her shoulders lift and lower visibly. Tangled hair shifts, slides a little down her shoulder and towards her back until he’s able to see part of her pale cheek and chin. The latter juts a bit, enough to prove that she’s not as at relaxed as she wishes to appear.

She _hates_ this - he can tell.

The recognition is satisfying in a way, almost makes up for the fact that he, too, hates that he has to be here right now. 

„Uh yes,“ Elizabeth says eventually, more addressing the opposing wall than him. „Something cropped up.“

Although he can’t see much of her, he’s pretty sure that she’s doing that thing with her lips; the one where she almost purses them while barely biting her bottom lip. She does that a lot when she feels insecure or uneasy; he used to study her facial expressions a little more than he should, considering she was - _is -_ nothing to him.

Work. Business. That’s all she ever was. Ever will be.

(She ain’t special. Wasn’t the first one he ended up fucking with, won’t be the last. That’s how this goes.)

„Must’ve been an emergency then, huh? What? One of the kids got sick? Or you hadn’t finish with baking gluten-free cupcakes for the next school treat? C’mon, darlin’. Tell me. I’m dying to hear what was more important than the drop.“

She remains silent and it’s so out of common for someone like her; that kind of person who just can’t stop babbling, always has something to add, always wants to have the last word. There’s no getting round noting how she’s become quieter in general though; still chatters on him whenever she fears for her life or her cut or whenever she needs something else from him, but apart from that - she’s changed as well.

(Fair enough. He still remembers the first time he shot someone. He always denies that he does, but the memory of the loud bang which rang in his ears days after, the sound of ripping skin and spattering blood, the thump with which his body hit the ground - all of this is etched on his mind. The difference is though, that he was still kid when he did it. And that the shot he fired actually _killed_ someone.)

He continues as she keeps still, "Or tell me what kept you from calling or texting. Could’ve sent one of your lady friends instead. Or we could’ve rescheduled.“

All at once, a batch of jerky, high-pitched laughter erupts from her mouth, clarifying that she’s still alive and listening. That she’s more than some mono-dimensional robot with only a limited number of words and movements at disposal.

„Sure thing,“ she scoffs, voice dripping with sarcasm. "As if you’d have listened.“

She’s not wrong. Highly probable that he wouldn’t have been too inclined to defer the drop or to listen to feeble excuses in the first place. Nevertheless standing up on him, letting him wait for _nothing_ , pissed him off even more. He should’ve just shown up at her house right after, when the anger was still fresh and seizable; he could’ve caught her in the act. Could have convinced himself of the fact Elizabeth surely didn’t have other, _more important_ things to do.

But the evening was reserved for Marcus. Rhea had wanted to drop him off at his new loft; he’d promised that they would watch a movie, eat popcorn and that he would be allowed to stay up past bedtime this once. And no matter what, his son was first priority. So he went home without confronting her, taking that bad temper with him into the evening.

(Even when physically absent, even with her _non_ -emergence, Elizabeth still manages to sabotage his life, his relationship with his son. Is it abnormal that he hates her more for butting into his son’s life than for _shooting_ him?)

„What was more important than the drop, Elizabeth?“ 

„I forgot about it, OK?“ she snaps without missing a beat, fingers clenching around her glass.

Rio can’t stop the frown that spreads on his forehead, feels the wrinkles digging deeper into his skin. He narrows his eyes, wishes he could see more of her than this small triangle of fair skin.

For all he knows, Elizabeth is not exactly the forgetful type of person. She’s more likely the kind that writes to-do lists, sticks sticky notes to fridges and cupboards, keeps her appointments in a calendar. Not only in an app on her phone but surely also in something made of paper. She’s organizing the lives of four kids and keeps tabs on her husband’s and her sister’s lives too, most certainly never missing anything of importance. 

It’s only fair that he has difficulties believing any of the shit she’s saying. 

„Real cute,“ he adjusts his posture, leans in closer and breathes near the side of her neck. Single strands of hair flutter in response to the air he emits. „Now. The truth.“

By now he’s used to her conjuring up excuses and lies out of thin air. That’s one of the reasons why he stripped bare her entire house, only leaving the things permanently installed. The kitchen counter and cupboards. Sinks, toilet and shower. 

(If it wouldn’t have been such a mess, if it wouldn’t have taken so long, he would taken them too.)

In secret, he’s almost a little sad that he wasn't there to see the expression on her face once entering an empty house. The shock, the sudden awareness that he’d seen through all her simply laughable scheming all along. That she’s not as smart, as untouchable as she fancies herself. He’d have loved to see that.

(Almost pitiable how she’s seen so much of that business already and still doesn’t understand a thing.)

„ _That_ is the truth,“ she hisses, but honestly, _she_ ain’t the one entitled to be on edge right now.

„I don’t know what else you want me to say,“ Elizabeth adds on second thought, sounding calmer, almost resigned now. 

She empties her glass in one go and thumps it down on the counter with unnecessary force, getting ready to raise her hand to summon the bartender once more. Before she can do just that, Rio catches her wrist, ultimately passing over his decision not to touch her more than necessary. Briefly, he registers that she utters a sound of protest, but any resistance she might show deflects off him. He yanks her wrist down more firmly than he should, squeezing her hand against the wooden counter until her fingers start to squirm. 

(Her skin is warm and softer than his own and somehow a smell he can’t quite pin down strays into his nose. Something sweet, but not _too_ sweet, neither very fresh nor light. Just something that instantly clings to his skin; it makes him want to shower to scrub her invisible traces off.)

Either way, Rio gets what he wanted.

Her head spins around, revealing her face for the first time since his arrival.

Surprise, bewilderment, a little bit of shock even - or all three at once - make him loosen his grip around her wrist. She pulls it away almost immediately, keeps rubbing the spot where his hand has been with her thumb. However she doesn’t turn away. Lets him take in her face for a little while longer. There’s nothing more to hide now anyway.

Maybe, if he hadn’t already seen her face in so many different spots, under various lighting conditions, he wouldn’t have noticed the faint bluish patch just below her left eye, contrasting with pale but partly flushed cheeks. Obviously she tried to conceal it under layers of makeup, but it shines through still.

The more he stares at it and the more he recognizes it for what it is, the more her hands start to twitch in her lap as if she considers hiding it behind them. As if that would make it spirit it away.

His jaw clenches. Maybe he should reconsider ordering a drink. He might need that one now.

„I hit him first,“ Elizabeth supplies, smiling weakly. Her eyes are all clear and firmly directed at him.

(He doesn’t need to ask who she’s referring to.)

„That the reason you didn’t show up?“

She hesitates, opens her mouth but stalls an answer. „No.“

For a change, she appears to be truthful about something. As far as he can tell.

„Thought things were getting better between you two,“ he says as indifferently as possible. „Man thinks he’s in charge, spelling spas. Feeding his ego.“

„Yeah.“ Elizabeth stares at him for a long moment. „Except he’s not thinking that anymore. He’s not thick, you know. He figured it out. That we’re merely using him, the spas, as a pretense. And, _god_ , I don’t thinkI've ever seen him this furious before. We had a fight and he said _things_ …that I didn’t approve of and when he got too close I just…I guess I just _snapped.“_

All that blurts from her mouth within seconds, sounding rushed and jerky. As if she fears he would cut in on her. And as if she wanted to give voice to that all along. He wonders if he’s the first one she tells about it and, if so, how she explained it to anyone else.

„And he hit back?“

„I think it was more a reflex than anything else. He didn’t mean to.“ 

„He told ya that?“

Elizabeth shakes her head, faces away from him again. Her hands reach for her glass once more, absently starting to toy with it. Sliding it back and forth, spinning it on the spot. He wants to grab her hands to stop the fidgeting cause it’s driving him mad already, but he’s crossed boundaries once before; he won’t do it again for something as trivial as that.

„He gave me that look though,“ she murmurs, „He always gives me that look whenever he forgets taking out the garbage or picking up Jane from football practice. I guess it’s his way of… _apologizing_.“

„And did you?“

„Did I _what_?“

„Apologize to him. You hit him first right?“

She huffs, shoving the glass in front of her a little too hard. It almost tips over, reflexively Rio catches it before the fall, puts it up again. He leaves his hand there, curled around her glass, hoping it will keep her from touching it again. 

(It does.)

„He deserved it.“

He can’t help but give a quiet smile at that, refrains from patting her arm as he praises, „Good girl.“

His tone is mocking but the message behind it isn’t. Thinks that he would have been only too pleased to witness Elizabeth slapping that idiotic husband of hers. He would ask why exactly they still pretend to live in that happy family bubble when quarrels between them end in brawls, what happened to the divorce she’d planned, but he doesn’t. 

(She could come up with the idea of thinking he _cares_ about her personal life and again - he _doesn’t_.) 

„Should I take care of him?“

A jolt tears through her entire body, makes her sit up straighter as she turns to meet his eye again. She’s frowning like she doesn’t quite understand what he means, but he knows she does.

„ _What_? No- why-?“

„Mutinous employees are never good. Bad influence on working climate.“

Elizabeth crinkles her nose and he can tell that his choice of words leaves its marks on her as she absorbs and processes them. She may see herself in them. _Good._

„I’ll handle this,“ she counters, sounding far too self-opinionated in his opinion. „And he’s not _your employee_.“

„Ah, yeah. Sorry. My bad. Just forgot how _great_ you handled all your other problems before…“

Rio observes how the words sink in and - he just can’t help himself (it’s way too much fun) - lets his hand roam over his chest and shoulder just then, groping his way until he’s sure to have found the exact spot where one of the bullets hit him. He rubs the patch for a moment; it doesn’t hurt any longer, hasn’t in a while now. Only rarely there’s a distant, dull throbbing, which doesn’t bother him anymore, so it’s fine.

(But _she_ doesn’t know that.)

His little show has the desired effect. Elizabeth’s eyes follow his hand’s movement and he sees her struggling like she wants to avert her eyes, doesn’t wanna stare cause it’s rude and shit and cause her pathetic do-gooder soul can’t take much more. But it’s comparable to a car crash on the other side of the road; as you drive by you know you shouldn’t stare, it’s improper, and still you feel the urge to look, to suck in some residual sensation.

Elizabeth’s face grows somewhat paler. She closes her eyes very slowly, opens them again only seconds later, lips quivering as if she has just woken up from a nightmare.

It makes him wish he’d gotten more time to draw out the moment.

„So, whatcha say, mama?“

Her eyes snap back to his. She’s blinking fast as if trying to wave off unpopular images that have popped up inside her head when being, once again, reminded of what she’s done.

Something crumbles inside his chest; might be some of the defenses he’s built.

(He reminds himself of two things:

  1. _She_ ain’t the victim here.
  2. And _he_ is certainly not the problem.)



„No,“ Elizabeth insists, stubborn as ever. „That’s different.“

„Is it?“

„Yes!“ One of her hands winds up, gets slack and falls back into her lap. Only belatedly Rio realizes that she wanted to smack his shoulder, before perhaps remembering that this is what _friends_ would do.

(And they’re not friends. They’re… _nothing._ Really. If he _had_ to chose a label he would probably go with _colleagues._ )

Elizabeth tries to cover up her hesitance, sounding audibly exasperated by now.

„It _is_ certainly different. He’s…he’s still the father of my children, alright?“

„Look, honey, just cause I’m offering to take care of somethin’ it doesn’t always mean murder.“

She snorts like she doesn’t believe him and he can’t even blame her. Apparently, for once, she’s not completely oblivious of what’s happening around her, not too naive to remember what she’d gotten herself into. Even so, she’s wrong. Clearing her husband out of the way would cause more problems than it would solve, would attract too much attention to the shop and to what happens behind the front.

He can’t risk having feds and cops turning everything upside down.

(Someone would surely miss him. Elizabeth shouldn’t be much of a problem - she would know what happened to him - but car man has certainly parents, that coddled him as a child and would miss his silly behavior.)

Simple threats should do the job. Rio knows men like him. They’re constantly boasting and talking big, showing off the few things they’re partly capable of. But in the end, all that comes from their mouths ain’t worth its while. Words stay words with those men. As per, all bark and no bite. Hence shouldn’t be a real problem; nothing he couldn’t handle _without_ assassinating anyone.

Elizabeth doesn’t seem fully convinced. She puckers up her eyebrows.

„As I said, _boss_ , I’ll handle this.“

„But should business become afflicted -“

„It won’t.“

They stare at each other, battling an invisible enemy floating between both their chests, none of them willing to look down or blink first because it would resemble a defeat that none of them is ready to claim for themselves. Rio finds that he’s never taken notice of _how_ intensive blue her iris can be, even with dim light surrounding them.

Even if he would like to tear his eyes from her face, he’s not sure he would be able to.

„A week.“

His words startle or baffle her enough to blink first. 

(He can’t help but acknowledge the fact that _he_ ’s won.)

„What?“

„I’ll give you a week. To get him in line again. Make sure he doesn’t spoil the whole show. You don’t get it right until then, I’ll take care of him. Got that?“

Elizabeth expires, eyes closing for a second. Then she nods, murmuring a silent, „Thank you.“

The question of how exactly she’s planning on going to do that preys on his mind, but he’s fed up with wasting his time thinking about stupid suburban fraudulent husbands and so he lets it be for the sake of his own emotional wellbeing. 

It would be the perfect time to make a cut, to stand up and go and leave her behind, because he should enjoy the circumstance that Elizabeth seems all alone, so washed-up and bummed out that she needs to drown her sorrows in alcohol at daytime, barely managing to get dressed in a partly decent way that still makes her appear like she’s just fallen from her couch. He wants to leave, knows he _should,_ otherwise things will end very badly very soon.

But somehow, for some inexplicable reason, he stays rooted to his seat, can’t take his eyes from her.

(Pity. Yeah, that must be it. _Pity_. He feels pity for her and her wretchedness.)

_It’s lonely at the top._

Yes. Yes, it is. He knows best, has experienced it from day one. You can’t have it all - he’s learned that early; she still has to. And she’s not even at the top (yet); she _was_ but she’d ditched it all for - for what? 

School treats and bake-offs and playdates? Carting around four kids, coming home to an obnoxious husband? Being just a simple, narrow-winded housewife?

She could’ve been so much more than _that_. And she surely knows that too. Or else she wouldn’t have started setting up her _own_ business without him, after his alleged death. And he has to admit, only reluctantly, that he’s a little impressed with what Elizabeth has accomplished within a couple of months. She had help for sure, had used that nerdy girl and her friends, however, _she_ runs the place, tries to negotiate terms with him, still defies him even with her life at stake.

Elizabeth’s not the same woman in that kitchen anymore, dropping grocery bags and screeching. And he can’t help but think that _this_ is somehow, to some extent at least, _his_ fault (or achievement). He won’t forget that the choice was hers, but he consented to let her in just too eagerly, dragged her down with him after that, without remorse, _until_ \- 

_Until_ he came to see what she’d become, experiencing it firsthand as she put three bullets in him. The first might have been an accident, some kind of defense mechanism, a human reflex, cause he stepped closer and he’s not sure what exactly she thought he would do cause, really, _she_ was the one with a gun in hand, but somehow he could understand it, could forgive and forget even. The second and third one though…

(Rio regretted teaching her to shoot then. Fortunately, she’d never been the student with the best aim.)

„Anything else you wanna tell me?“ He digs deeper, pleased with how indifferent, how even his voice sounds.

„No,“ Elizabeth says slowly and frowns, before turning her face away from him, back towards the bar, like she needs to mull over something without wanting him as a witness. „Nothing that would concern you.“

„Oh, is that so?“ A small smirk slips onto his face, gives the corners of his mouth a gentle prod. „Correct me if I’m wrong but…don’t you still owe me an explanation, huh?“

A beat. Somewhere the bartender seems to wash up glasses. Water drips and swashes, glass clinks. 

Then there’s a hesitant, „I don’t think so.“

„ _Last night_. Rings a bell?“

Elizabeth sighs, brings her hands up to her head to rub her temples, sighs again as she lowers them. Her gaze is fixed on some spot in the distance, someplace between shelves with bottles and signs announcing different kinds of new drinks.

„It was stupid, OK? Won’t happen again.“

„Yeah,“ he agrees, folds back part of his jacket. „It won’t.“

Perhaps it’s because she heard him shift or somethin’, howsoever her eyes snap back to him and land on what he’s exposing, seeing what she’s supposed to see. For a minute or so she stiffens at the sight of the gun, tucked into the side of his waistband, like he thought she would, then her shoulders slacken off and she purses her lips, looking defeated all the sudden.

„Really? You gonna kill me? In here?“

„Nah,“ he cocks his head, allows his jacket to obscure the weapon again. „Tell me where you been and we’re good.“

Elizabeth smoothes her hair back, absently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear that has bothered him for a while already. She folds her arms, unfolds them again. Instead she settles on jutting her chin forwards, not ready to cave in just yet.

„Why do you care anyway?“

„I don’t.“ 

His answer comes too quick, too rehearsed, Rio realizes straightaway and curses himself for even paying attention to trivialities like that. That sort of stuff like doesn’t matter to him, it’s nothing he’s gonna waist his time with; she could interpret and scrutinize for all he cares, but it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Still, he feels the need to lessen the effect so he adds, teasing with a healthy amount of edge, „Just making sure you’re not plotting to kill me. _Again_.“

Elizabeth really has the nerve to _smile_ at that and, as he catches himself _returning_ it, he genuinely begins to consider that something might be utterly wrong with him, with her, the both of them. One minute they argue and he’s _so_ fuming at her for all the shit she’s pulling that he could kill her on the spot. And the other minute…the other minute he craves for seeing her smile like that _again._

_What the hell is wrong with him?_

He hates her. He knows he does.

(Everything’s so fucked up. _They_ are. Should make him wish he never met her, never slept with her cause stuff like that usually only complicates things. Yet when thinking back, he probably wouldn’t have done anything differently. Except…maybe, yeah, he wouldn’t have given her the gun _that_ night. Wouldn’t have kidnapped her, wouldn’t have kidnapped Turner or would have just killed the fed himself without involving her.)

Or would have just done nothing at all. Let things slide. See what happens.

(He won’t take the blame for what happened that night though, for what she did. Indeed he pushed her, got carried away maybe a little bit. Sometimes he just enjoyed putting on a show. But it was _her_ who pulled the trigger in the end, aiming it at _him -_ not at Turner. No one forced her to do _that_. It was a choice, admittedly not the most rational one, but still a choice she made.)

To say it hurthim, like _emotionally_ , would be an exaggerated version of the truth. Nevertheless, he can’t quite get around admitting that he was - still _is -_ more than resentful towards Elizabeth when comparing himself with the other guy in the room, the one she should’ve shot instead. 

What had _that fed_ ever given her? 

He’d been obsessed with pulling her behind bars from day one, so bad that he’d had bribed and blackmailed others, friends of hers, to give false testimonies on her. He’d wanted to take away a mother from her children, had despised her for _what she was_. 

And sure they’d had their initial difficulties too, however, Rio hadn’t actually walked the walk, had put a gun against her head so many times, but had never been close to pulling the trigger. 

(But maybe he should’ve. Would have spared him a lot of trouble and frustration.)

The point is _he_ had given her more than she deserved, given how she behaved, how she stole from him, tried to put him behind bars and so forth. 

He’d given her a job, an occupation that finally did her and her skills justice. Had spared her life. Had slept with her twice (not that he hadn’t pictured it before, hadn’t wanted it too). Had warned her against what the feds were up to so that she could cover her tracks. Had encouraged her. Had said stupid cheesy things like, 

_I think you could be something._

Hell, he’d even fetched her kid’s freaking blanket for her.

And chances. He’d given her _so_ many. So many chances. 

(She’s just alive because of another chance at that point.)

„You wouldn’t believe me If I told you,“ Elizabeth says a little _too_ casually. She coils a loose string from her sweater around her finger, unravels it, then does it again.

Rio leans forward, taking up the same posture from before, by resting his elbow on the counter and propping his chin on his hand to watch her from the side. He can’t fully conceal the grin that steals its way into his face. Would be possible that he missed those little games, the light teasing, seeing her behave all uncertain (and not cause she fears for her life or somethin’).

„Try me.“

Elizabeth gazes at him like she’s trying to figure something out. Then she capitulates.

„Birthday.“

She gives him just that one word and surely it’s not that hard to figure out what she could mean with it. Still, he’s gonna need a little bit more than that.

„Care to elaborate on that, darlin’?“

The way she looks at him tells him she could; she just doesn’t really want to.

„Fine,“ she snaps, tone clipped, a bit irritated too. „If you must know-“

Rio gives his best, charming smile. „ _Definitely.“_

He’s pretty sure he sees her roll her eyes before she speaks on. Listening to what she’s saying, even though it’s the explanation he wanted to hear all along, turns out to be more difficult for him than he expected. He’s only listening with half an ear, too busy with tracing the way her face goes more red with each word. It starts with a faint blush spreading on her cheeks, before it travels up to her brow, to the roots of her hair.

„Alright. _So_ …it was mine. Yesterday. My birthday. And I…spent the evening on the couch with my kids. And Annie and Ruby. Dean was there at some point too. And we watched movies, had cake, and I just…I _knew_ about the drop, OK? I didn’t forget it, I didn’t mess up the time, I just _wanted_ to forget it. Things were good for a moment, things were going well with Dean again. I was… _happy_ for a moment and I thought that if I’d go now I…I wouldn’t be much longer.“

She sputters, making superfluous pauses but swallowing the end of her sentences anyway. It’s almost cute.

Her explanation is so jejune and yet too rich in detail, too emotional, to be fabricated and so he settles on believing her. There’s a file stored in one of the many unpacked moving boxes scattered around his new loft. Background checks on each of his _employees_ belong with routine; he doesn’t like to be caught unawares. It’s always an asset to have a hold on any possible insurgents and to be sure that none of them is a spy or somethin’.

Obviously, he has one on her too. There’s not much of interest in there though. Nothing he doesn’t already know of. She’s been practically an innocent, good lamb until that robbery, except for driving her mother’s car without a driving license once at the age of fifteen, but that doesn’t really count. However there’s been some pretty shady stuff going on with her mom, an alcoholic with spells of depression. They couldn’t find much on her, but Rio’s pretty sure she wasn’t mom of the year. Probably not very enthusiastic about having kids, neglecting them and so on.

(Perhaps that’s why Elizabeth’s always so hell-bent on making clear that she’s a mother. Like she’s tryin’ to prove something.)

He keeps all of these files in a separate storage unit. The fact that hers is in a carton at his loft doesn’t mean anything. Nothing, but him trying to find something else on her while recovering from gunshot wounds, plotting revenge.

(Sprinkling shreds of him knowing about her family’s past into the talk would certainly hurt her, would cross another line, but it wouldn’t keep her from working against him. If any it would only stir up more resistance.)

The thing is, he never watched out for her date of birth while reading her file (why should he?) but he’s pretty sure that if he’d check up, the file would confirm what she said. She’s telling the truth.

„Why you here then?“ Rio finally asks and, sure, it ain’t the reaction she expected cause she knits her brow, narrows her eyes and stares at him like he’s some sort of rare enigma that she’s trying to decipher.

„You sayin’ you were _so_ happy,“ he drawls, cocks his head. „And now you lookin’ miserable.“

„Charming,“ she stifles a laugh but goes all gloomy then again. „I left my phone on the kitchen counter. And last night, when I didn’t show up, you know…you called. More than once. And…Dean found it this morning. He thinks-“

She interrupts herself, shaking her head, „I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.“

Rio merely shrugs, smirking. He juts his chin forwards in a curt movement. „Go on. What does he think, huh?“

He notices how Elizabeth shifts in her seat, smoothes down her sweater just to give her hands something to do. Her legs cross and uncross again. He can nearly _grasp_ her discomfort now.

„Well, _you know what._ “

She pointedly raises her eyebrows, and of course he _knows_ but making fun of her is just too amusing.

„Nah. Wanna give me a leg up?“

Elizabeth snorts, but attempts a weary smile as she says, „I’m just… _so_ tired of his constant reproaches, the quarrels, the trust issues. It’s like… _I_ am not the one who spent _years_ sleeping around, who squandered all our savings. All _I_ did was trying to safeguard our kid’s futures and now…I mean there’s not even something to- to be jealous of and- and I…I hate this.“

She sniffs, buries her face in her hands. It doesn’t sound as if she’s crying yet, but the fact that her shoulders twitch a little and that her breathing becomes heavy and erratic tell him that she’s barely containing the first tears.

Rio contemplates, suggesting, „Divorce him.“

(And fuck, he shouldn’t interfere in her affairs cause who’s _he_ to give advice?)

„It’s…complicated.“

He shrugs, „Always is.“

Although, in his opinion, maintaining a marriage is far more complicated than getting a divorce. 

(He doesn’t tell her that.)

„Could you- could we just…sit here and _don’t_ talk?“

The request is bold when coming from her but Rio finds that he doesn’t want to talk about marriages and divorces either so he hums and complies.

„Alright then.“

He leans over the counter, gestures for the bartender.

„Could we have another one for her? And one for me too.“

Elizabeth’s face retires from her hands at that; to his surprise her cheeks seem dry, no trace of tears. Her gaze rests on him as the drinks arrive soon after, but he isn’t deterred by that, casually pulls some bills out of his pocket and pushes them over to the young man on the other side of the counter, paying more than he must. 

Only when lifting his drink he turns to face her again, holding it out halfway between them.

„Cheers.“

Elizabeth hesitates, eyeing him warily, before accepting her own drink and clinking glasses with him.

„Cheers.“

He takes a sip but sets his glass back down when realizing that she’s still glaring at him, motionless, without making a move to empty her own glass.

„You know it’s rude to turn down an invitation.“

„I guess so,“ she says slowly, takes a long drink. Something - he’s not sure what - flicks a switch inside her. „I gotta go.“

She’s on her feet before the words have fully left her mouth, swaying a little. The instinct to grab her arm, to steady her, is there, is hard to resist but he’s successful enough not to touch her as she staggers backwards, making a grab for her purse, which sat on the stool beside her.

„Elizabeth.“

She shakes her head as if trying to shoo away his voice, denying the effect he knows it has on her, while stumbling not in the exit’s direction but in the opposite one, following a sign that points towards the bathroom.

He wonders if it’s just her being drunk and baffled, confusing directions. Wonders if it’s only a coincidence, if she’s thinking about the last time they met in a bathroom. If she’s thinking at all.

She’s already out of sight, has disappeared behind a corner, as he knocks back the rest of his drink, savoring the pleasant burning in the back of his throat before he skids of his stool, following her.

(Whatever this is - it’s a bad idea.

Still - he doesn’t turn round.)

Either she pokes along, the alcohol in her system slowing her down, or Rio’s just put on a spurt because he catches up with her in the cramped corridor, which separates the bar and the restrooms. Light is dimmed and his eyes ain’t accustomed to that new sort of blackness, so he blinks a few times until he’s certain it’s really her before he approaches the shuffling figure at the other end of the narrow, long-drawn-out room.

He’s not thinking as he grabs her by her elbow, he’s not thinking as he spins her around, he’s still not thinking as he shoves her against the wall, steps before her. Distantly he notices that her cheeks are wet, then he’s already kissing her, brushing his lips against hers and he thinks that if she should struggle in some way he would let go of her, but she doesn’t und so he deepens the kiss.

Kissing her evokes a funny flutter inside his chest, which intensifies with every second that passes, making him feel like a sheepish schoolboy who kisses his crush for the first time, and he hates that thought but savors the feeling nevertheless. He feels her heart racing against his own, can’t think of anything else but how smooth her skin feels underneath his fingertips, how he can’t deny that actually _missed_ this. _Her._

Rio keeps his eyes half open, sneaking a guilty peek at her every time he comes back for air, just to make sure it’s really her, that he’s not imagining any of this. But every breath he takes smells like this sweet, nameless scent that he smelt before and he still doesn’t know what is is, just knows it’s her body who radiates it, who passes it on to his skin with every touch. And it’s not even special, the scent, but it’s so _her_ and he wants to bottle it, keep it somewhere no one will ever find it.

Eventually, he pulls back a little, just enough to see her stare at him out of wide, blue eyes as if the idea of him kissing her right now, right here is the most unexpected thing and yeah - after everything that happened - maybe it is. 

„What- what are you doing?“ 

A smile plays upon his lips as he reaches out, gently tugging an unruly strand of hair behind her ear.

„Making sure there’s actually somethin’ for your husband to be jealous of.“

He pulls her in again, claims her mouth again, hungry and intense, until he feels her knee giving in a bit. This time she stirs too, kisses him back and he’s not sure if she’s aware of her hands, that slip under his shirt for a moment, before clasping behind his neck. Rio parts his lips a little more and he feels her washing over him like a wave of warmth, curling his toes, unfurling all his senses as the taste of her nearly silences all thoughts, all doubts.

And when Rio breaks the kiss this time he steps back right away, putting as much space between them as the close walls allow, knowing that if he doesn’t back off he won’t stop. Lucid traces of disappointment on her face mirror his own feelings.

„Happy Birthday, Elizabeth.“ 

He steps back further before she can protest, before she can correct him by telling him her birthday is already over.

„I’ll text you,“ he says. „About the next drop.“

And then he turns and goes. Without looking back, without giving her the chance to say something.

Because that’s what he’s best at.

  
*

„Took you a while, boss.“

Mick leans against the car as he leaves the bar, phone in hand, but gaping at Rio as if seeing right through him, as if knowing exactly what happened back in that corridor.

„Yeah, good things take time,“ Rio retorts, getting in the car.

Mick starts driving but ignores the road for the most part, instead stares at him more often than he’d usually do.

„I get it,“ he grunts eventually, „She’s like _hot_ and gritty and all. But she’s bad news.“

„Yeah,“ Rio leans back and stares out of the window, hand instinctively palming his torso. „As if I didn’t know.“

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what this is...but I guess I just wanted Rio to congratulate Beth on her birthday at some point and this, well, this is what happened...


End file.
